


sur le bout des doigts

by CkyKing



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aranea!Noct, Gladio has a lot of feelings about Noct and history, Hair Braiding, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 16:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11558721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CkyKing/pseuds/CkyKing
Summary: Something infinitely softer than command, a relationship born out of thousand of moments and renewed each day as Gladio braids and cares for Noct’s hair, each twist another layer to the Dragoon’s armour, another door slamming shut between their own private universe and Niflheim’s coldness that awaits just beyond the threshold.





	sur le bout des doigts

**Author's Note:**

> A fic set in my upcoming Aranea!Noct AU where Nyx is the prince of Insomnia and Noctis a mercenary. Let's just say that relationships are complicated in that verse~
> 
> Originally posted on [tumblr.](http://ckyking.tumblr.com/post/163098100299/sur-le-bout-des-doigts)

Fresh out of the shower, skin rosy with heat that he lacks at any other time, Noctis looks almost vulnerable, his carefully tended armour laid aside in favour of softness and comfort. Water beads at his hairline, slides down the pale column of his neck one shining crystal after another and soaks the thin cotton of his sweater. The white material grows translucent under the mass of half-dried inky strands climbing down his back in a messy disarray, as different from his military meticulousness as night and day.

The sight is one that Gladiolus will never tire of, the savage beauty of fire and viciousness subsumed into the pale loveliness of a winter day. Silence and untouched wilderness for miles around, steam curling from a favoured cup and the weight of a blanket draped across one’s shoulders. Gladio carefully tucks away the urge to experience the clean taste of his skin for later, focuses instead on the muscled thighs peeking from under the borrowed garment’s hem, on the silvery scars marking the tempting line of his legs.

It’s only the two of them for now, no Ignis to share a private smile with over their leader padding into the room on cat’s feet, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with a sleeve-covered hand in an almost childish gesture, scratching at his stubble with the other; little quirks he keeps under lock and key when out in the world.

Like this, it’s easy to forget they’re mercenaries— _the_ mercenaries if he’s honest with himself, and he usually is.  _Lionhearts_  is a name whispered far and wide across Eos; by nobles wanting another trophy to add to their collection, by overwhelmed hunters, by the upper echelons of the Empire. The infamous Dragoon and his companions shrouded in red, weapons held high against the darkness; quicksilver smirks and a tongue sharper than any blade.

Doesn’t mean that Noctis isn’t a  _brat_  under the veneer the world knows them as.

A slight grimace of discomfort twists Noctis’ features as he lifts his hair out of the way in an automatic movement, plucking at the soaked fabric in a vain effort to keep its coolness away from his shower-warmed skin. As always, Gladio is captivated by the blue glimmers playing in the night-dark tresses, the harsh light of their shared apartment turned into so many stars hidden amongst the hair sliding through Noct’s lithe fingers.

The movement turns purposeful once he spies Gladio lounging on the couch, book carefully held over his bare chest. With a smirk, he starts parting his hair in sections in preparation for a quick braid, amber-green holding amber-blue tauntingly all the while.

What would be a growl for any other man is but a sound of disgruntlement for Gladiolus, and gratification widens Noctis’ smirk at the immediate reaction. Since they were young, he’d always been very particular about how he cared for his hair, and Noctis who keeps them long for his sake indulges him with pleasure. Still, teasing is not above him – far from it – and the near pout on the giant’s face is always worth it.

***

An exercise in restraint. Hands that could and had broken through solid steel trembling as they slid through dark strands. Finger shaped indents in a wheelchair’s handles. A smaller hand bleeding black black  _black_  on his, guiding it back to an oh-so fragile head.

“I trust you.”

***

“Don’t  _do_  that.” Gladio grumbles as he sits up, spreading his legs and wordlessly signaling Noct to  _get his ass over here_. “You’ll damage them even more.”

Laughing, Noctis lowers his hands and fishes out the comb he stashed in the elastic band of his boxers in prevision for this moment, revealing it with a flourish and making the other man roll his eyes in exasperation. Still, a tiny smile tugs at the corners of his scarred lips at the mischievous twinkle gracing Noct’s eyes, so unlike the detached and predatory glint he assesses the rest of the world with.

Those eyes stay focused on Gladio’s as he walks closer to the sofa, his stride unchanged by the lack of his customary boots; heel to toe, the swaying gait of a predator on the prowl. The bigger man’s mouth dries out at the intent in every single one of Noct’s movements, at the avian stare pinning him in place, softened only by the fond crinkles of his eyes, the sweet purse of his lips. Like this, Gladio knows with absolute certainty that his partner can see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the minute twitches of his muscles, the flecks of colours in his eyes—blue for the father he’s never known and the one he does, gold for their stabilizer.

Ancient Lucian comes to mind as he drinks in Noctis’ efficient motions, the comb dancing between his fingers like one of Ignis’ stolen daggers. It’s no fancy thing, a trinket Ignis picked up in Lestallum one day, its craftsmanship not worth mentioning but for the runes decorating the stained wood, matching the cracked leather of the book Gladio spends his spare time translating.

Tales of conquering kings and cunning queens, their lives slashes of ink on yellowed pages, indents he follows with callused fingers as he deciphers them, drawing parallels between Modern Lucian and Solheim’s barely remembered language to bring them back to life for a brief instant. Noctis reminds him of them now, a shadow stepped out of the book he cradles against his naked thigh as he waits to complete their daily ritual, a small piece of normality they grasp at and hold close.

It’s no wonder that Noctis sounding each world carefully in his ear, arms wrapped around his waist and head tucked in the crook of his neck, has always felt so natural, he thinks. On his tongue, each word is gilded in gold and silver, their grit coated in nacre by the softness of his mouth and given back proper meaning. Without understanding why, Gladio knows that each quiet exhalation against his skin, each twist of Noctis’ tongue fit the ancient language perfectly, the truth of it shivering down his spine in time with his lover’s breaths.

Even stripped down to the bare minimum, he radiates command, each of his steps teeming with the potential to break down cities as easily as he crosses the distance separating them. But it is not this dignity of old that kindles his heart, that warms his chest at the very sight of him. No, what binds him to Noctis is softer and easier, but infinitely more complicated.

As Noctis finally reaches him and alights on his thigh like a curious bird, his head tilted slightly to the side as he surveys his perch, Gladio’s heart fills with tender feelings he dares not name in fear of banishing them forever. The unsaid words between them sink like pearls in his chest, tiny treasures he hoards like the most precious of jewels.

Fingers gliding across his brow, still sweaty from his morning run, and tucking stray hair back behind his ear in an hopelessly fond gesture assures him that he is understood, that his feelings are echoed back with the same intensity. When those same fingers shift their course to trace his features and the scars that mar them – “X marks the spot.” – he closes his eyes and leans into it, his arms coming up to wrap securely around a trim waist. They brush against his stubble, follow the slope of his nose teasingly and finally come to rest against his mouth, fingertips light against the swell of his lips.

Only then does Gladiolus open his eyes again to gaze into his lover’s devastatingly open ones, laid bare in the face of the vulnerability no one except Ignis and him has ever seen from him, the Executioner. Just like his book, the comb lays forgotten on the couch, both items discarded for the time being, the past put aside to make space for the present.

The contrast of shower-warm skin and cold hair against his forehead anchors Gladiolus, keeps him rooted in the moment as Noct’s hands leave his face in favour of his hair, seeking the hair pins keeping them up and out of the way out of habit. Each time one of them is carefully eased from his bun, the warrior’s heart tightens a little more, as if his carefully built defenses are unravelled one by one, sweetly and without afterthought.

He observes Noctis as he does so, the steadiness of his hands, the look of almost peace that spread across his features, each pin a prayer bead under his fingers, each one a word that drops from his lips.

Only when he is done does he look down again and meets his gaze, smile overflowing from his eyes to reach his lips as he tangles his fingers in the hair he so carefully freed. Running his fingers through it as he does so, Noctis slides himself more fully in Gladio’s lap, not relinquishing his hold for a second, a sentiment shared between the two of them.

Then, finally, he bends down and curls a arm around the strong neck bowed to him, dragging him infinitely closer, uncaring of the sweat coating Gladio’s chest in a glistening layer. The bigger man’s mouth comes to rest against his collarbone, where his sweater slid out of the way in his ministrations.

“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t deal with your hair.” Gladio mouths against the scarred chest offered to him, against the pale wing of his collarbone straining against the bruised skin covering it.

“Do it for me?” Like a secret, like a request, Noctis whispers in answer.

“As you wish.”

Something infinitely softer than command, a relationship born out of thousand of moments and renewed each day as Gladio braids and cares for Noct’s hair, each twist another layer to the Dragoon’s armour, another door slamming shut between their own private universe and Niflheim’s coldness that awaits just beyond the threshold.

Gladio guiding him down to rest between his legs, heat bleeding from his hands in soothing waves. Noct’s trimmed nails gliding along the muscles of his calf and digging slightly, talon-like as light sparks beneaths his fingers. The repetitive motion of comb-strokes, the familiar one-two-three of weaving.

Perhaps it is nothing more than an old habit given more significance than it deserves, but it is theirs all the same; moments lost in time, moments that will never be recorded anywhere but on their skin, in the mismatched pieces of their hearts.

The tales of those forgotten rulers pale in comparison, the dying light of far flung stars compared to the fever-warm skin beneath his hands, the glorious life beating in such a lithe body.

Gladiolus breathes out slowly, the Executioner breathes in, closes his eyes and ties off the marks of his love and loyalty in Noctis’ hair, familiar roads leading straight to his heart, to the decades old promise lodged in his chest.

No books will ever be written about them, and nothing but their weapons will be left once their bodies return to dust. But they have each other, and it’s enough.

It has always been.


End file.
